" CHAPTER VI. ‘What the devil for?’ ‘Messenger,’ Gerald explained. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. This was to pass under the arch, along the narrow ledge of the starling, and, if possible, attain the eastern platform, where, protected by the bridge, he would suffer less from the excessive violence of the gale. He used to live in a boarding-house in Russell Square. Wood's astonishment and displeasure momentarily increased.
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